Robin Cook - Marker

Roger nodded. "What if I end up with questions about individual people for my study? I mean, questions about their records in regard to their general performance while at Saint Francis, like whether they got along with their coworkers or whether there was any disciplinary action taken for any reason."

"That will be difficult," Rosalyn said, nodding as if agreeing with herself. "Is this study of yours an in-house study, or is it something you're thinking of publishing?"

"Oh, it's definitely in-house with limited access, except at the highest administrative level. It's definitely not meant for publication."

"If that's the case, I can probably help you, but I'd need to run it by our president and general counsel. Do you want me to do that Monday? That would be the first chance I'd have."

"No, not really," Roger said quickly. The last thing he wanted was for the two presidents to have a chat about his so-called study. "Hold off until I see if I need any more personal information on any of these people. I probably won't."

"Just give me twenty-four hours' notice if you do."

Roger nodded and was eager to change the subject. He cleared his throat and finally got around to ask the key question on his mind. "Which, if any, of these employees who left Saint Francis came to the Manhattan General, meaning they stayed within the AmeriCare family? Is that information readily available?"

"Not that I'm aware of. As you know, AmeriCare operates its hospitals as individual entities. The only economies of scale relate to price and origin of basic supplies. If a Saint Francis employee leaves and goes to Manhattan General, for us it's no different than if they went to a non-AmeriCare hospital."

Roger nodded again. What he was realizing was that he was facing some serious collating time when he got back to his office. The chance that he'd have something to take over to Laurie's apartment that evening as an excuse to get together with her was looking slim. He lifted his wrist and glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to seven. The window behind Rosalyn was completely dark. Night had long since fallen.

"I'm afraid I've kept you here an unreasonably long time," Roger said. He smiled warmly. "I'm very appreciative of your help, but I'm afraid I'm feeling particularly guilty since it is Friday night, and I'm sure I have kept you from something much more entertaining and enjoyable."

"It has been my pleasure to help, Dr. Rousseau. Bruce was very flattering about you when he called. I understand you were with Médecins San Frontières."

"I'm afraid so," Roger said modestly. "But please call me Roger."

"Thank you, doctor," Rosalyn said and then laughed at herself. "I mean, thank you, Roger."

"There's no reason to thank me. It is I who should be thanking you."

"I've read about the work that Médecins Sans Frontières does around the globe. I'm very impressed."

"There is a great need in the world for even the most basic healthcare in the trouble spots of the world." Roger was pleased that the conversation had taken such a personal turn.

"I'm sure. Where did you go during your service?"

"South Pacific, the Far East, and finally Africa. A mixture of impenetrable jungle and arid desert." Roger smiled. He had this story down pat, and just like it had with Laurie, it usually had an auspicious social outcome.

"It sounds like a movie. What made you leave Médecins Sans Frontières, and what brought you to New York?"

Roger's smile broadened. He took a deep breath before closing in on the pièce de résistance of his come-on. "The eventual realization I wasn't going to change the world. I'd tried, but it wasn't going to happen. Then, like a migratory bird, I felt the instinctive need to come back here to nest and start a family. You see, I was born in Brooklyn and grew up in neighboring Forest Hills."

"How romantic. Have you found the lucky lady?"

"Hardly. I've been too busy getting myself situated and adjusted to living in the civilized world."

"Well, I'm certain you will not have any trouble," Rosalyn said as she began amassing the papers from which she'd culled the lists she'd given to Roger. "I bet you have some fascinating stories to tell about your travels."

"Indeed!" Roger responded happily. He was relieved. He knew he'd piqued her interest. "I'll be happy to share a few of the less harrowing, if you'd allow me to buy you dinner. It's the least I can do after having kept you here for so long. That is, of course, if you are free. Would you allow me the honor?"

Somewhat flustered, Rosalyn shrugged. "I suppose."

"Then it's a deal," Roger said. He stood up and stretched his legs. "There's an Italian restaurant here in Rego Park that's been a fixture since the fifties as a hangout for the local mafioso. The food was great the last time I was there eons ago, and not a bad wine list, either. Are you game to see if it still exists?"

Rosalyn shrugged again. "It sounds intriguing, but I can't be out late."

"Me neither. Heck, I'm going back to the office tonight."

Jasmine Rakoczi!" a voice called.

Jazz stopped her repetitions on one of her favorite exercises. She was lying prone working her hamstrings and buttocks. Turning her head to the side, she could see that someone was standing next to the machine she was using. Surprisingly enough, the feet and legs were female, not male. Jazz took her earphones out, then twisted around to look up into the face of the individual. She couldn't see much, because the face was backlit from the fluorescent ceiling lights.

"I'm sorry to bother you," said the almost featureless face.

Jazz could not believe someone was harassing her in the middle of her routine, and it was more irritation than anything else that got her to extract her legs from the machine and sit up. She found herself confronted by one of the women who manned the front desk. She'd seen her earlier when she'd signed in.

"What's the damn problem?" Jazz demanded. She wiped her forehead with her towel.

"There are a couple of gentlemen out in the lobby," the woman said. "They said they needed to see you right away, but Mr. Horner wouldn't let them come back here."

A slight but distinctly uncomfortable shiver descended Jazz's spine. Mr. Bob and Mr. Dave's unexpected visit the evening before flashed into her mind. Something must be up. It wasn't like Mr. Bob to approach her in such a public place.

"I'll be out," Jazz said. She took a drink from her water bottle as she watched the health-club employee head out of the weight room. Jazz's first thought was that her Glock was back in the pocket of her coat, hanging in the locker. If there was going to be trouble, she wanted the Glock. But why would there be trouble? Mulhausen had gone smoothly, without a ripple. The only thing that came to her mind was the possibility of something happening in regard to the Chapman investigation. Like everyone else on the eleven-to-seven shift, Jazz had been approached by a couple of exhausted-looking detectives for routine questioning. But that had gone down just fine, as evidenced by the conversation they'd all had at nursing report. The buzz was that it had been a mugging, pure and simple. Hospital security had made a big point of promising they'd be beefing up patrols, particularly at the times when shifts changed.

Jazz walked quickly to the door. As preoccupied as she was she didn't even notice the men staring at her. Wasting no time, she went back to the locker room and grabbed a Coke at the entrance. Opening her locker, she pulled on her coat over her workout clothes, thrusting her hand into her right pocket to clutch her Glock.

With one hand in her pocket and the other holding the Coke, Jazz had to use her shoulder to open the door to the lobby. Beyond the sign-in desk, there was a rather spacious sitting room, and beyond that, a restaurant and bar. There was even a small sports-apparel shop.